


bury the light that lingers

by dallisons



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8876251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dallisons/pseuds/dallisons
Summary: There she was, at the beginning and the end of everything. It was war-time, when blood spilled and the earth drank it with all her greed. Yet the rolling grass of the hills looked just the same. The last time Feyre had come from a court of nightmares to this place of beauty, she'd thought, Home. We're home. Her heart had soared with some sort of relief.Now, the sight of all that peace, all that green life... it made her sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rattlingbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattlingbones/gifts).



> Note: The summary doesn't actually appear in the story. It's just a snippet from this universe, right after the end of ACoMaF.
> 
> Hello! Happy Holidays, rattlingbones. This was based on your prompt of: "Feyre seeming the innocent flower but being the serpent under it; the High Lady of the Night Court dismantling the Spring Court from within; stealing time away to be with Rhysand." It isn't an epic, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. All of your writing about what you loved about Feyre was very cool and inspiring for me. :)
> 
> For how popular a fandom this is, it amazes me that there isn't more fic! Anyway, enjoy everyone. Thank you for forcing me to write; always appreciated.

Dinner, generally, was a strained affair. Anyone in the room would have been aware of the tension, but none but a few occupants could have discerned why. The nobles of the Spring Court were enthralled by one another, as they always were, vacillating wildly from updates on the war to updates on the success of their morning hunt. Feyre smiled and listened at all the right times, for she'd learned very well these past few weeks what was expected of the Lady of the Spring Court. Gloves adorned her hands, so careful, so conspicuous. She was their Lady: happy to be alive, to be home with her love, to be marrying soon. Feyre was positive that they'd never liked her more than they did those past two weeks. 

Tamlin's right hand was always brushing hers, or maybe her arm, or sometimes the top of her thigh. They were light, reassurance touches, born from the paranoia of someone who'd lost her once before. Feyre recalled in perfect clarity the feeling of hope she'd once gotten from those touches. They had been less frequent, after what happened Under the Mountain, but it had taken her a week to understand why. Before, Tamlin had been worried an enemy would steal her away in the night. Now, he worried that the enemy come to steal her would be her own will.

It was not talked about. Not in their bedroom, or in his office, or during their rides. To anyone who asked, he was relived that the strange hold Rhysand once had over her was gone. There had been no sign that the Night Court was mobilizing against them; on the contrary, all of their forces had focused on Hybern. Tamlin had remained noticeably quiet on the subject of the war, but no one in this room had mobilized the troops they were responsible for. It seemed, for now, as though the Spring Court would sit this war out.

At the thought, Feyre's hand tightened imperceptibly around her fork. Her eyes immediately flashed to Lucien, beneath the lashes, a quick glance. He was looking at her, of course. He did it an annoyingly perceptive amount throughout the day, though Tamlin would brook no suspicion toward her if he was in the room. Feyre, as a result, had grown like a puppy at his heel, following anywhere Tamlin deemed it appropriate for her to accompany him. When he was indisposed or said it was none of her concern, she took long rides around the grounds, remaining well within the borders and making sure to tell the stableman she wasn't sure where she was going. Lucien had never quite bought this ruse, though he'd played for Tamlin's sake. It seemed as though he was as loyal to Tamlin as he was a traitor to her.

Dinner wound to a close, and the dusklight seeping in through the windows made everything seem magical and tinted rose. Feyre felt the longing, more and more common as of late, to gather that darkness in her palm, to harness it and feel the anger simmering beneath her skin. Instead, she buried it deeper, so deep that her smiles neared genuine, so far down her eyes sparkled and her face didn't twitch. She was a wolf in the den of hyenas, laughing with each other as  _her_ world, the world her family had once belonged to, was threatened.

As mortals, a group to which she'd once belonged, crumpled and burned.

The taste of wine in her mouth became acidic, and it was with relief that she stood when Tamlin ushered in the servants. They said their individual goodbyes to all who'd attended this weekly gathering. Feyre planted kisses on the cheeks of those she'd rather kill, and clasped hands with those whose touch made her want to recoil. When they looked at her, they saw empty-headed. Weak-willed. Easily controlled, both by Rhysand and Tamlin.

A warm pulse starting from her palm. It carried straight to her heart, easing her posture and relaxing her smile. As she beckoned the last guests toward the door, she sent one back.  _I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you._

They couldn't always share words, not when she was awake, but Rhysand would feel it. Her love echoing across the stars and into the mind of the man who  _saw_ her. The thought enveloped her, like a warm blanket, and when she turned to Tamlin, her smile was entirely genuine. Loving, even. The man she'd once loved enough to leave everything behind, to debase herself in every conceivable way, smiled back.

Unlike Feyre's, his smile did not quite reach his eyes.

"Tired, love?" He stepped close, his hand on her jaw. How safe that had made her feel, once. How cherished.

Feyre leaned into it now, ignoring the daggers she could feel in her back from Lucien's gaze. "I know it's important, but socializing has never been my thing. As you know."

He smiled, and it appeared more genuine. Tamlin always seemed to retreat when she put on her best performance, when she fit the mold of who he'd wanted her to be. As if something beneath his skin knew that the girl he'd loved had died beneath that mountain. Or maybe she'd never been that girl at all. Maybe he'd always imagined and fashioned her in the image of his own fantasy. She'd once believed in him to the point of breaking, but his alliance with Hybern, his continued toleration of Ianthe... no, maybe they hadn't known one another in the least.

"Then head to bed." He pulled her in for a kiss, and she closed her eyes and imagined home. Imagined Rhysand, his violet eyes mired with quiet joy at the sight of her after so long apart. The fragility in his fingertips as they first touched her, just before the hold became real, before it became tight enough to squeeze. He missed her with every fiber of his being, and she felt it, always, vice-like around her heart. It was the pressure that had quickly become her lifeline. She'd probably kissed Tamlin a thousand times before, had enjoyed it, longed for it, done it until it felt right. She thought it would be easy. 

Instead, her bond rebelled. It was as if the acceptance of Rhysand and what he was to her, what she was to him, made her very skin know when touch was wrong, when it was curving in belonging in another's hand. The bond between them seemed to overflow in that moment, Rhys most likely sensing the distress she was under, but her body language never wavered.

The only thing more intense than her disgust for the person he'd become was her protective instinct for those that were  _hers._

She made herself linger, as if her hand could not bear parting with his, until he laughed and waved her away, heading for his study with Lucien trailing after. His head remained half turned to her until the door was shut behind them, but Feyre did not look back, darting out of the room and up the stairs herself. It was time for her to dream.

It had taken them over a week to figure it out. The bond was still so new between them, and it stretched far and fragile over such long distance. Warmth and love were easy to send, but actual images and dreams were harder. Since Rhys had more practice, considering what he'd done Under the Mountain for her, as well as his skill as a Daemati, it was he who remained awake, who controlled the setting.

All Feyre had to do was close her eyes and think of home.

The way her body keyed when she tried to sleep was probably what made it so difficult. Lately she would toss and turn, never quite sure how to get into the right headspace. Her mind seemed to  _thrum_ with excitement, every heartbeat twice as fast. They'd really hit their stride with this ability of late, and at last, she was able to see Rhysand in full.

He appeared as he wished, within this strange dreamscape they maintained, no shirt or shoes to speak of. The world around them was black mush, nothing distinct or fully colored. The only thing that seemed real, here, was her and him.  _Them._ As the dream became fully realized, she was moving, not even stopping to get her bearings before her hands reached for his face, tracing the familiar planes. "I have news," she said, forever playing her part for their people before she settled into her role between them alone. Rhys said nothing, eyes like stars that drank at the image of her face, scattering between different features each time she blinked.

"The hunters near the wall - "

Any memory of her sentence was cut off at the pass as he kissed her, soft yet uncompromising. Her body felt taut as a bowstring until his hand brushed down her arm, at which point every fiber of her being seemed to melt all at once. It was nothing strong, not near enough for either of them, but their time was limited while Rhys pushed the limits of his power to stretch across this distance and keep himself from betraying his unaware state to the world at large. Reluctance sang between them when they were forced to pull away. 

Feyre's breaths came in short pants for a moment, making Rhys smile. "The hunters near the wall have been talking about the degradation. It seems the places where the King has broken the seal cause structural weaknesses overall." She swallowed, her throat raw as she remembered the helplessness she'd felt today. The ineptitude in her position when Tamlin was doing nothing and  _her_ people were dying far, far away. "I think he's beginning to trust me again. I expect the false information I 'remember' will tip the scales. Lucien is unconvinced."

Rhys snorted. "Lucien never knew when to quit. Tamlin still refuses to mobilize?"

"Not a single troop," Feyre confirmed. "He's sticking to his agreement, even though Ianthe and the King have not apologized for going behind his back. I think the High Lord of Spring fears setting his monsters loose on his people." Her voice had hardened as she spoke, awash with anger once more at all Tamlin was willing to sacrifice so he could play pretend at peace.

Just as he did with the bond, Rhys caught her hand, squeezing it once before the other came to cup her cheek. She leaned into the touch instinctively, both a mirror and polar opposite to the position she'd held with Tamlin less than an hour before. Even though this was a dream and her body didn't need to respond without her willing it, she glowed, because she knew if she did, it would make her mate smile.

"Feyre," he managed, his voice rough with the emotion he'd been barely leashing before. "Say the word. All you have to do is say yes. Mor is tugging at the reigns as is."

Feyre raised a pointed brow. "I'll be sure to tell her you're comparing her to a horse, next time I see her." Her arch amusement was all that remained, so strong was her longing to see Mor again. Amren, Cas and Az too, but the less she thought of them, the less holes opened up in her patchwork heart. 

Rhys didn't fall for it. "All you have to do is ask."

She shuddered, falling forward into an embrace so tight she thought to hold his very essence in her arms. To capture him and carry him with her always, even more permanent than he already was, which was near to impossibility. "A tempting offer," she admitted, for only in front of Rhysand could she be weak. "But I still haven't cracked him. Or them, for that matter. How useful would allies on this side of the border be?"

Rhys pulled back enough to look at her, to catch her eyes with his. "Not half as useful as having you close to me."

It was such a raw feeling, this love. It felt as though it had no bounds. She wanted to drown them both in it, to roll in it like a newborn pup, to kiss every inch of it and to swallow it whole. Instead, she kissed him, at the same time as she pushed him away. "Go before he finishes. If he wakes me, I don't know how well I'll be able to lie."

It looked as though his fists would break if he tightened them any further, but he faded from her view, and her dreams returned to normal. The pitch black of the darkness rolled over her, but it felt like nothing but peace and wonder. It felt like surrender and freedom.

It felt like home.


End file.
